The Face
by Fae2
Summary: What would happen if Middle Earth ended? A woman scarred for life tells her tale
1. An Introduction

Disclaimer: I do not own nor have I sought permission from the Tolkien estate to use the world of Middle Earth. I am doing what I think is the best representation of what would happen at a time like this.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
There it is again. That look. That look of utter loathing and disgust. Like they never thought Eru would take the time to create a miserable wretch like me. Well, He did, and I am paying the consequences for it now. There is another look. I cannot go anywhere without being noticed and despised and as I write this I wonder why Eru chose to give me a face to warrant such looks. There is another one. Why do they all choose to stare at me when there are plenty of shady characters in this tavern? Over in the corner there is even a man feeding his pet rat. Why do they not choose to look at him? It makes me wonder if staring at the deformed somehow helps people get through their day, if it even provides some sort of twisted entertainment so they can go home happy.  
  
You might be wondering who I am at this point after my comments on what I thinking of prying personalities. My name is Neroli Salk, I prefer people to call me Ro. I was raised in the city of Sal'is in the land of Hollin southeast of Eriador. I was born the seventh of twelve siblings: nine boys and three girls. My parents died when I was sixteen and I left my brothers' care when I was nineteen.  
  
'No wonder she has a disdain for the world,' you might be saying, 'if she was left without proper care when she was young and if she left her only family shortly after that.' Yes, you are right. I do have a twisted view of the world. But that is only because of my mistake and not because of faulty lessons learned as a child. My father raised me to be a kind, hard-working human being, while my mother taught me the "tricks of the trade". My mother spoiled me and my father disciplined me. Yet, if I had not known my father, and had been raised under different parents, I would not be the person I am today and I would be stuck in the monotonous job of housekeeping, which I loathe. But I digress.  
  
When I left my family's farm, I went to a place where I could learn how to take care of myself without a man's help. I learned how to defend myself and of the lore of my world. Ever since my brother, Jepal (he is the fifth oldest), came home from the Rivendell Archives and said I look like Lúthien, I have been fascinated with the myths and legends and general history of Middle Earth. So when I left my home, I went to the same place he learned his stories: the Rivendell Archives. I changed my name and my appearance, as much as I could, so that my family would not be able to find me while I was living there and learning the things they did not want.  
  
After I left the Archives, I journeyed through Middle Earth finding the places of these legends, or seeing if the places really existed. I also, with my fighting abilities, helped and still help the people that are in dire need and have no one to turn to for relief. I can track the things that cause them harm: spiders the size of a wagon and goblins, the nasty creatures that still live in the mountains and seem to be able to hide from even the most thorough of hunters and trackers, like myself. I try, because of my learned abilities, to help people and rid the world of these pestilent, aggravating, and destructive enemies.  
  
At the Rivendell Archives, I not only learned about the history of this earth, I also learned how to fight, how to wield a sword and staff. Actually, I finished my training in staff handling, but that is part of my story. I learned how to track and hunt: how to find the little details in a trail of dirt and be able to tell if a bird picked up a worm for dinner or if a child walking home had picked up an interesting stone to bring home and show his parents. With my father's teaching and my new teaching, I learned how to work hard and help the few who are not against me. I also learned how to heal simple wounds and where the more experienced healers lived, so that if I did come across a pressing case, I would be able to get the sick person to the help he needed. With my mother's teaching, I learned how to cook, sew, raise children, and all the other things proper wives need to know, as well as how to manipulate people to do the things you want, but that is also a part of my story.  
  
I have traveled far and wide. I have years of practice putting what I learned to use. I have also learned things about myself that only a long life and unusual circumstances can teach. If you are wondering, I am in my early fifties while writing this. My family's history is known for having very old descendants. We are known to live to be one hundred twenty easily. So it is no surprise to me that I have just reached my prime. I am still able to keep up with the younger generation, mostly because I still look like the younger generation, with the exception of my scar. I have also kept a journal, a record of my day to day activities and adventures, since I was ten years old.  
  
If you are interested, when I travel I walk with a staff, I carry a sword and a knife at my left hip, three daggers: two on each leg hidden by each boot and one strapped to my right forearm. I carry a satchel strapped to my back filled with a few simple herbs and my few belongings consisting of a bed roll, a cloak, some dried bread, an extra set of clothes, and my journals. I wear dark clothing, though not all black, so I can blend in with my surroundings whether it is night or day, and I always wear a hood. When I am dealing with people, I find that if they do not see my scar, they will not feel repulsed by me and treat me like I am dirt and thus a shady, conniving character. But when I am out in the wild, with no living person near me, I feel free to let my hood drop, as well as my reserve.  
  
Do not worry, dear reader, I have not been caught in the wild skipping and singing to my heart's content oblivious to my surroundings. I do not allow myself that much freedom, but I do allow myself to enjoy the little things in life, the simple things that make life worth living. Every once and a while, for example, when I am traveling, I will go out into the open and sit, hidden, and wait. I wait for the animals of the area to be comfortable with my presence; I wait for them to come out of their hiding places and begin to continue on with their daily lives. I wait for the rabbit to sneak out of her hole and start nibbling on the grass. I wait for the birds to start hopping from branch to branch, trilling all the while and making the most beautiful music. I wait for the timid doe to creep out of her hiding place, make sure the intruder to her peace is gone, and then let her fawn come out and enjoy the warm sunshine with her. It is those things, the beauty of nature, that I find joy.  
  
Sometimes, when I am walking out in the wild, hot and tired, I am surprised by a short shower. It is long enough to cool me down, but short enough so I do not get soaked in moisture. The relief I feel after that summer rain is given in thanks for Eru's perfect timing. When I am walking between towns and I happen upon a flower-laden meadow, the waft of perfume I get sends me flying. And when I am walking next to a river, following its course to see where it ends, I am energized by the sound a joyous waterfall makes. When I am hungry, but it is not near enough for luncheon or supper, and I cross a patch of wild berries, I find my mouth exploding with the pure sweetness those berries bring. Or when I am walking and am surprised by the delicate fluttering of a butterfly crossing my path, determined to flit and float despite so many of its predators around, I am encouraged. It is in these things, these simple beauties, reader, that I find I enjoy more than the common wants and covets of this world. I seek those simple moments more than gold or silver or precious jewels. But again, I digress.  
  
I come from a Muscalli lineage. I am the average height for a Muscalli: five feet ten inches; I also have my mother's long, curly black hair and my father's famous golden- green Muscalli eyes. But other than that, you would not be able to link me with the rest of my family, owing much to my accident. I have reasonably good hearing and seeing, both honed by my training to be a tracker and hunter. I also have a very unusual gift, gained when I earned my scar, but that is for another time to reveal.  
  
There. Someone else is looking at my scar. I do not know why I made such a stupid decision to not wear my hood in this tavern and I am most certainly paying the consequences for such an action now. There is now a good sized space around me as I sit, eat, and write where people who do not have to deal with me dare not cross into. I do not know what makes them stay away more, my scar or my glares. But back to what I was saying. What was I saying? Oh, yes, I was talking about my unusual gift, thought that is all I will tell of it for now.  
  
No doubt you are slightly shocked at how a person with a mark such as mine would be able to do so many more things than just mourn her wretched appearance to the point of death. Believe me, reader, you are closer to the truth than even you realize, but I will tell you how close you have come later.  
  
Why am I telling you all these things about me and what I have learned and what I enjoy and how I dress and what I look like? Well, I wanted you to have a proper picture of my appearance and what kind of person I am, so as you read my story you can picture me doing those things and not some person from your imagination. I also wanted you to know what kind of person I am today, so that when I let you read my journals, you will be able to see how far I have come in my quest to be the perfect Ranger. What is a Ranger? A Ranger is a person from old that used to track and protect whoever needed help. They were guardian angels of sorts without being seen by the people they protected. They were the servants of Middle Earth, willing to be exiled and outcast to protect the people who cannot protect themselves. I learned of them in my lessons of the past. I especially liked the story of the one named Strider who became king.  
  
Though most of the legends of the past are just that: legends and myths, I can sometimes, with my gift, be able to see that some of these legends are in fact true, and not only that, but some of the details in the way they are told to us, are wrong. I will show you what I mean, soon. In the meantime, let me finish my introduction. I aspire to be like these Rangers of old in the way they lived and loved. I am constantly also trying to find if all of the legends and fairy tales we learned as children are true, whether they are based on fact and not drawn from some very imaginative mind. I also am trying to prepare Middle Earth for war. You have no doubt noticed that the boundaries of old are being crossed: men are becoming filled with more and more greed, and that life as we know it is gone forever. I suspect that we are again heading towards a life changing, Middle Earth encompassing war. But it is a slow process getting the people of this world knowledgeable about the evidence. How I came to these conclusions are also a part of my story, and I have come to the end of what I must say.  
  
Let us now thank the face Eru gave me at the beginning, so when the time comes, we will not trip over our tongues in anxious anticipation, for it is because of this face that I have my story to tell you. And I have kept you from it for far too long. 


	2. The Beginning

Disclaimer: I do not own the world of Middle Earth or any of the histories about that world. The characters and what happens to them is all that is mine.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Ro! Where are you? I'm sorry I said that about Da! I really am. I was only saying it in jest. He was a really good man." One of my brothers was looking for me because I had hidden myself to cry in peace. He had made a derisive remark about my father, the one person I could not stand to have anyone think badly about. After only a few months, my brothers have completely forgotten who my father was and what he stood for. He had meant the world to me and after my father died, I thought that I could no longer suffer through my loathsome life. Then my brothers all saw how I was reacting to his death and how I was not reacting to hers. While my father had treated me with love and respect, my mother treated me like everyone else: with loathing and disgust. She had felt that way ever since I procured my scar. Actually, it was only after my scar I finally realized how she truly felt about me. She ever after bemoaned my ugliness because I was once beautiful, and yet I ruined what I had.  
  
I stepped out into the clearing, for I did not want my brother to discover my hiding place. "I know you did not mean to offend, Jayth, but did you not know that it would still hurt? I loved Da more then anyone, and you go and make horrible jokes about him. And he has only been dead for a few months."  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't know you would take it that way otherwise I would have never said anything about him. Besides, Da has been gone longer than a few months, Ro. You need to remember that. Otherwise you may never fully heal. And I…….well, I don't want to see you suffering like that." Jayth was sincere. How he managed to make fun of someone trying to win approval and the next moment apologize with his whole heart to renew that approval, I will never understand. If he only watched his words better, then he would not have to trip over himself apologizing all the time.  
  
"I know you are sorry. I am sorry for going off the way I did. But you should not have said that all the same. It is still to soon. Too many people in this city have the wrong idea about him. If only they could have known him and not his reputation for having married the most shrewd woman in the town. Then I would not have to take their words, and I could defend our father's good name." I hurried after Jayth following him to the house. While crossing the field I knew I needed to finally tell Jayth what I had been planning to do ever since our father died. "I wish that I could finish my training so I would not have to listen to what people say about him with patience. Instead I would rather make them eat their words." That concession was hard to make: I did not know how he would take it. But his next words proved my trepidation.  
  
"Ro, you know we can't let you do that. Ma, she always insisted that you learn the ways of your sex because ever since the accident, she wanted to keep you far away from weapons." Jayth was always my mother's favorite and even though he was the closest to me in age, being the sixth born, he tried always to win her favor for fear of getting the wrath she freely gave me. And even though she had died about a year before, he still felt the need to stay in her good graces because she might be watching from the Hall of Mandos.  
  
"You need not try to uphold her rules on me, I know how she felt. But think of it this way: if I do not have permission to learn from one of my many brothers, then I will leave and never come back." There was steel in my voice. We crossed the rest of the field in silence, both to our separate thoughts. My father had wanted me to learn how to defend myself and my betrothed wanted me to be learned in the art of wielding a staff. Because of them, my mother conceded to let me learn. I went to the Rivendell Archives with Jepal, and I started my training. Since my accident, though, she did not want me anywhere near something that could ruin my appearance again.  
  
I thought about how after I came back home and healed from the accident, I had desired to continue my education, but my brothers felt differently. After our parents' death they followed my mother's wishes of wanting me to finish learning the ways of keeping house and not something that only men should know. I knew my brothers would never accept my argument, yet I always tried. I wanted to learn how not to rely on others, to be able to take care of myself. For since I had gotten my scar, and after my betrothed ran, it was apparent that I would never marry. And I did not want to stay with one of my brothers, forever indebted to them for shelter and food.  
  
Jayth swung his legs over the fence that separated the house from fields escorting me back to my daily chores. "Talk to Kimel about your decision. Let's see what he thinks." I knew I was doomed. Kimel was the surest defender of my mother's wishes. And being the eldest, he felt he had the full responsibility of taking care and doing what was best for all of us.  
  
I had been in the middle of peeling the potatoes for dinner when Jayth had made his derisive remark. He had come waltzing in on a break from tending the crops, and had made a snide comment to me about what I was doing and what Da would have thought. The way he phrased his statement made my blood boil and my eyes well up with tears. I ran from the room not wanting to give him evidence that I did indeed still suffer.  
  
As I finished my job of pealing the potatoes, I resumed thinking about my father. It was he that first gave me a nickname and called me Rose. Then, because it was a proper girl's name and not some distant unfamiliar relative's, my mother started calling me that and the rest of my family soon followed. I did look like a rose among thorns before my accident, I will admit that. After that dreadful day, my father continued to call me Rose, but I insisted that everyone else call me Ro.  
  
I asked my father once why he continued to call me something that only brought painful memories to my mind. He said he had called me Rose because it was a fitting name for one who would soon deserve to be named after a beautiful flower. He said my character was worthy of a rose title, even though I did not look it. When he died, my brothers wanted to call me Rose again, but it only brought another painful memory to my mind: a dead, loving father. So I insisted yet again that my brothers call me Ro, if they wanted to use a short name. Only my father had the honor of calling me Rose, and I have allowed no one since to call me that. Besides, that name is the farthest thing from their mind when they see my scar.  
  
Though my father was an honorable man, my mother was the opposite. When he was gentle and kind, she would be harsh and manipulative. When he disciplined, she encouraged; when he loved, she despised. Why he ever married her, I will never understand. I never thought they were perfect for each other, and everyone agreed with me. Except for my father. He loved my mother, with so much devotion and loyalty, it almost made me sick. I watched them daily and wondered how he could be so blind to her many faults, striving always to win her favor.  
  
"Why do I hate my mother so?" you may ask. She manipulated me. She promised a rich man twice my age that he could have me in marriage. She, in return for his privilege of showcasing me, would be able to consort with dignitaries. She hated me because I had been beautiful, unlike her, and with my beauty she lived vicariously; she could step up in life. When I had gotten my scar she hated me because I ruined her chance for a better existence. I hated her because I found out what her real motives were through seeing behind her mask. I was able to see clearly her purpose for treating me the way she did after my mistake, and what I saw disgusted me. Before, she had hidden her real intentions by spoiling me and teaching me how to use my beauty to manipulate others. After, she put on a facade of sorrow when malice ran through her blood.  
  
As I continued on with preparing dinner that night, I thought of the time my father saved me from another drastic mistake. Because of my mother's character and attitude toward me before and after my accident, I thought I had lost her love, and thus I wanted to kill myself. If she, a person I highly admired before my scar, did not love me now, then I thought I was no longer worthy of any love or life. My father showed me the error of my ways.  
  
It was after my attempt that I saw the difference between my father and my mother's personalities. It was much later that I saw my father for who he really was. He was a man that loved my mother because of her worthless character. He knew about her faults and married her to teach her there were good things in life. He strove to reconcile her to what was right and good. He tried in every possible way to teach her how to be kind, gentle, and humble. He was the one who told me to take a hard look at my mother's true character before I made any rash decisions. He knew how she felt about me. He helped me to realize that my mother was a hypocrite. He taught me to put aside everything she had taught me and become like him. She had made me cheeky and conceited, she had made me spoiled and stuck up, and she had made me vain and vapid. And instead of hating myself for what I had done, I hated her for what she had made me become.  
  
I finished setting the table for dinner when I suddenly realized my father had known the entire time he was married to her what my mother was doing and what her motives were and how she was raising her children. Yet, despite all of the despicable things my mother had taught us, the rest of my family took after him in consideration for others around them. I was the only one that took after my mother at first, but then I joined the rest of my family after I learned her true nature. I had previously believed everything my mother told me about the world, taking it all in without question. After, my father taught me that my mother's lessons were only superficial and would not take me far in society.  
  
I had finally learned my lesson and finally started to emulate him when he died. It has been eight months and I cannot get over my loss. It is just my luck to finally find someone worthy of my love and respect, and he passes from this world. I do not know what to do. I must admit, when he died, I was utterly overwhelmed. 


	3. My Mistake

Disclaimer: I do not own the world of Tolkien, I just read it and write about it.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
I had that dream again. The one in which I got my fatal flaw. I try to not let it take control of me. But every time, every time I am drawn to do what I have always done, to do something I should never have considered doing but for the arrogance in my heart.  
  
It always began the same way, in the field with the needed stretches in the morning, so our muscles would not be ruined in a day full of rapid movements and new drills. All of the training warriors were gathered in that field for their daily stretches.  
  
The archers were off to one side, stretching their backs and arms; the swordsmen were near them doing practically the same stretches, but for a few new stretches intending to make all of their muscles flexible to move in any way necessary to block or attack. The spearmen were off to the side near the stables and the horses they used in their training doing the same set of stretches.  
  
The staff wielders were in the middle, watching all, while doing similar stretches as everyone else. We were few in number because the staff was not a popular weapon to be used on the battle field while bows and arrows, swords, and spears were vital parts of an attack and defense. We were the lowlifes of the warriors, but we cared not, for we were not there out of necessity, we were there because we had the choice to be there.  
  
I looked around at all the people on the field with disgust because of their feeble attempts to make themselves appear honorable and noble while they were far from the truth. They were most likely the eldest in a starving family, gone off to learn a trade that would bring wages home to feed their loved ones. Others were probably forgotten children in a large, fairly well-off family, having no inheritance and turning to the art of war to have some means of providing for themselves and their future. And others, the more idiotic ones, were there to learn a way to attain glory, to learn one of the surest ways to become a legend, to be remembered for centuries. It was in battle the common foot soldier was in equality with the fierce lord who led their company.  
  
I, in this dream, always looked around in a feeling of contempt for the low lives of the world, the meager excuses for humans that had to share air with me. And every time I had this dream, I felt more and more loathing and hatred for myself for feeling this way. I sense the emotions from that day with utter, retched disgust for they were the same feelings that people now feel towards me. Bitter irony always wins.  
  
As my vision panned from one side of the field to the next, I remember thinking I was better than any being there. I remember the vanity and pride I acquired from my mother coursing through my veins and making me act every part of the spoiled cow she had made me become. I always felt hatred for myself when I experienced this particular segment because I remember thinking that if I were to even try to wield a sword, I would be better and far more graceful than even the four-year students. It was this thought that compelled me into doing what I did.  
  
In my dream, I always look around to see if any of the teachers were near by, so I could walk over, casually, to the swordsman, and show off my astounding beauty.  
  
The day was perfect for the exhibition of my looks. It was a clear blue day, cool, with a hint in the air of the rain that had fallen the night before. The sun shone down unfiltered upon the open clearing all the warriors were on. It was in just the right direction to pick out the faint red highlights I had in my black hair. It shone on my skin like a golden light, accentuating my high cheekbones and giving a dancing sparkle to my eyes. It gave my skin an almost luminescent glow, making most of the boys I passed go weak in the knees at seeing such a beauty as I. And every time I have this dream, I feel the need to kill myself for the selfishness I had shown that day. I strutted because I wanted to and because I thought I had the right to. I thought I was the most beautiful creature the world had ever seen.  
  
Hateful, conceited snob. If the person I am today had been on that field that day and had seen me waltzing by looking down from my lofty pedestal like I had every right to own the world, then I would have sacrificed my life just to be rid of hers. I would think that, yes she was beautiful, but her attitude definitely needed an adjustment. And I think some higher power felt the same way I did because of what happened next.  
  
While I was still worshipping myself and allowing the poor wretches to be able to see a goddess like me, I happened to pass by a swordsman. A particularly cute swordsman. A quite hot swordsman. He had the sculpted muscles and fine physique of a four-year student. His skin was tan from practicing all day in the sun, his hair was brown with golden highlights, his eyes were blue and so intelligent that when you looked into them, you found yourself lost in the depths. He was perfect. So I decided that instead of boosting my rather low self esteem by having drooling lowlifes fawn over me, I would boost it by having him fawn over me. My walk would be perfect if this particularly fine specimen of the male species would notice me and talk to me. So, in my snobbish air, I walked quite queenly in his area, hoping for a glance and then a stare as I passed by.  
  
I got no such luck.  
  
He ignored me! He ignored the divine temptress that I was to continue with whatever he was doing. Oh, the horror I felt at not being noticed. I turned around, determined to get his attention. I did not care if he did not notice the storm of feminine wiles that was about to hit him: I was going to be fawned over by him or I was going to be fawned over by no one. They could live without me in their lives - those pitiful, pitiful fools.  
  
When my target did not look up as I approached, I started to hum, to warn that the distance between us was growing smaller. If I loved anything more than my beauty, I loved my voice. It carried in it the ability to make the hearer listen and love the one who sang. My voice was almost like that of a legendary creature called the elf. I almost had their mythical ability to transport the listener to other worlds with just the right pitch and volume. So, to further ensnare the man to my purposes I did not only hum, but I sang. I called to him in some forgotten language, bidding him to get carried away in the hidden meaning of my song. I called for him to look up, at least, and acknowledge me. The others around him, I remember, stared at him with awe for being able to withstand this barrage of beautiful proportions.  
  
As I continued to walk closer, I began to step to the rhythm of my new song, adding further enchantment to the tune that whispered around his being. But that insufferable, incredibly gorgeous man would not look up. He did not even notice my proximity. He made no twitch or flinch to signal his notice of my approach. In fact, it looked as if he was complete unaware I was there, as though he was intentionally ignoring me.  
  
I saw red. I do not remember what exactly happened only that something snapped within me. The selfish pig I was did not know how to handle rejection, so she - I - reacted in the only way I knew how - with hatred.  
  
Since I was in the swordsmen part of the field there were knives, daggers, scimitars, and swords all around me in the hands of their owners. Before I knew what I was doing, I had circled around behind that foolhardy being with a newly borrowed sword in my own hand. I had left my staff by my fellow students when I first began my "self esteem booster". I had not walked with my staff because it would diminish my appearance from that of a perfect gift to that of a gift. So a borrowed sword would have to do my purposes, even if I had never held one before that day.  
  
I stepped closer and took a swing at him, attempting to kill him in one fell swoop. He deserved to die because of what he dared to do. And I was the victim that needed to punish him and rid the world of this self- proclaiming, arrogant orc that would not fawn over me.  
  
He then did something I did not expect: he side-stepped my blow. He moved like one who knew I was going to strike. But I did not ponder the implications of that thought as I took my next swing at him.  
  
Again he side-stepped, almost as if I was giving him the most easily blocked moves. That only made my blind hatred for the man become more red- tinted. I dove again, this time thinking that I needed to show this person, once and for all, he did not want to mess with the beautiful Neroli Salk.  
  
I was wrong. He had every intention of putting me in my proper place. He had known I was there. He had known I had been watching him. He had known that I felt I deserved to be the queen of all I beheld. He knew who I was, and was only doing what he thought should have been done a long time ago.  
  
In my dream, I can still see him standing with a purpose greater than mine, with a mission of greater importance. He was there, I forever knew afterward, to bring me to the end of myself. He was there to tempt me to overreact to non-reaction.  
  
"Do not do this." His voice was cold, not impressed at my attempts to attract his admiration. "This will only lead to folly, and you will be the only one to regret it." My borrowed weapon was held at a standstill as he made known his warning. If I had not been in the fury I was, I would have melted at the sound of his deep, bass voice. I only remember that I suddenly went weak in the knees, but resolved myself to finish this worm off because he had not shown me the proper respect.  
  
If I had known what happened next, I would not be telling this tale.  
  
As I made my last dive at the committed swordsman, his usual easy block was halted by a sudden move on my part. I felt I knew how he was going to block me. I had been watching him for quite some time practicing with his class mates, so I moved in a different direction than the one he was expecting. The move I made was fatal. His sword was pointed diagonally, intending to make my sword glance off his own and force my balance off. But instead of meeting my sword, he met my face. I had bent over to go under his block, but his movement and mine made a wound I would never forget.  
  
I stepped back, not sure of what had happened. My borrowed sword was taken by its rightful owner as soon as he saw I was still for more than a few moments. He too did not heed me of the danger that I had recklessly walked into.  
  
Still in shock, I hardly notice the sword being absent from my hand. I only remember the shock that his blade, his sword, had touched my flesh. Pain was not even among my emotions as of that moment.  
  
I looked around, still in silent surprise when I noticed the others around me looking at me with unusual emotions on their faces, almost a mirroring of my own emotions. Silent, universal shock graced every face I turned to see. They were all staring at me with the same degree of horror. Before my attempt at gratification, I had been used to the stares of awe that I felt I had warranted, but these were of a completely different kind. That is when I felt something move down my face.  
  
At first I had thought it a mere bug, so I swatted at it, and looked to see if I had killed the annoying creature. What I saw surprised me even more than the fact that he had dared to touch my face. My hand was covered in blood.  
  
Sometimes, the brilliance of man can be greatly exaggerated.  
  
I stood there, my face dripping wondering how a bug that small could cause that much of a mess. It was not until I finally faced him again that I began to realize something was utterly and terribly wrong. He was looking at me with deep pity, an emotion I had never seen directed towards me. I knew there was no way I could warrant such a look if I had failed to even capture his attention before.  
  
Suddenly, as if by some granted wish, I knew. I knew my life would never be the same. I knew what I had before was all gone in an instant. And I knew for half a second that I had deserved this.  
  
By that time, word had gotten to the teachers that something was wrong on the field. They knew if they did not hurry, something terrible was going to happen. But they got there just as I realized what had happened to me, too late to even do anything other than worry over the excessive amounts of blood I was losing. They had taken one look at my face and had hurried me away to the healers' section of the Rivendell Archives.  
  
By then, the full weight of what had happened was finally upon me, and I wept. I wept bitterly for my lost beauty. I loved it as much as one would love a child. I exalted my face over everything in my life. And in one mistake, one rash decision, it was taken away from me.  
  
My face would bear the remembrance of that day till the end of my life. I had procured a scar running in a diagonal line from my left temple just beyond my hair line, to the middle of my right jaw bone.  
  
And always I would wake from this dream, as I have just done, in a state of dread, the same dread I felt that wretched day, and it leaves me cold and heartless with knowing I deserved the mark that now graced my face. 


End file.
